


Afterword

by buttonless



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Season 9, Swearing, The Purge, post 9.13, references to child abuse/neglect, references to non consensual possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:37:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttonless/pseuds/buttonless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam continue their fight, and begin to realize just how little either understands of the man his brother has become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterword

Sam at least has the decency to look ashamed as he leaves the kitchen with a quiet announcement of, “I guess I’ll pack up my stuff, then.”

 

Ten minutes of slowly simmering rage later, Dean decides that isn’t good enough.  _How dare he?_ How could he say something like that, and walk out? Like that would make it any less okay.

 

“Did you mean it?”  He practically spits the words at his brother.

 

Sam doesn’t look up, doesn’t even turn around.

 

“Of course.”

 

“So you’d just let me die?”

 

“Don’t say it like that,” he replies, and Dean is perversely glad to hear the quiet break in his voice.  “Like I would kill you myself.”

 

The silence stretches between them, and Sam is unloading the contents of his dresser into a suitcase. 

 

“If you were dying, Dean, I would do _anything_ ,” Sam continues eventually. “Anything at all. But only what I- Sam Winchester, _just me_ , not demons or angels or magic- could do.”

 

“And if I died- That’d be okay?”

 

“No! It wouldn’t be ‘okay’, Dean,” Sam says as he rounds to face his brother.  “It would be the exact fucking opposite of ‘okay’! It would suck, and I would hate it!” Sam is nearly shouting, and he slams a fist against the wall and the hanging clock falls and shatters against the ground. Dean is used to seeing physical anger- In his job, in his father, in his mirror.  But in the usually-controlled Sam, it is unnatural.

 

“You would be dead, and I would hate it! I would hate myself for it and I would hate you and I would hate anyone and everyone who ever had anything to do with making the world such a worthless place and when I woke up in the morning the first thing I would do would be to miss you and missing you would be the last thing I did before I slept and hell, maybe I’d just spend the whole damn day missing you and the fact that you think I would be fucking ‘okay’ if you died is just…”  The violence is ebbing away, and all that’s left is the hot tears staining his face, flooding out his eyes.  “Fuck you,” he says through trembling lips.  “Fuck. You.”

 

Dean bites the inside of his cheek and after a long minute he says, as evenly as he can manage, “I’m still mad at you, Sammy.”

 

“Of course you fucking are!”  Sam’s voice is edged with anger again, but it’s lost its focus- If anything, it seems to be directed at himself now. “Sometimes I think you’re always mad at me, Dean, and I’m never sure for what! I feel like you’ve been mad at me since I was a sophomore, and I came back from school excited because the guidance counselor had asked me if I had started looking at colleges-”

 

“That’s not true, and you know it-”

 

“No, Dean, I don’t! I don’t know anything, because you never tell me- Why won’t you ever talk to me?  What are you so afraid of?”

 

“Well, you seem to be the expert in my feelings today, Sam! Why don’t you tell me?”

 

Sam pulls one of his bitch-faces, in the style of ‘And what do you mean by that?’

 

“Apparently,” Dean snarls, “I’m afraid of being alone! Apparently, I’m just a desperate little boy that everybody leaves, and I guess I’m too dumb to figure out why, huh?

 

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

 

“Well, that’s sure how you said it,” Dean snaps, surprised at the volume that has crept into his voice.  “And guess what?  You were fucking right!  Gold star for you, Sammy, smartest kid in the class! I’m a coward, can’t handle being alone! But I guess I better get fucking used to it, right?  Because you’re the only damn person I’ve managed to keep alive, and you can’t even fucking stand to be around me!”

 

Sam makes a noise of protest, but Dean’s eyes are hot with tears he’s determined to keep back and he keeps going, ignoring the tightness closing around his throat.

 

“Look’s like the man upstairs has a sense of humor after all!  Because everyone, everyone I’ve ever had the damn foolish idea to get attached to, gets wrenched out my grasp with blood and a pyre, so _of course_ \- Of course, me putting my foot down, saying ‘Not him, not my brother, not the little kid I taught to tie his shoes, not the one guy I want next to me in a fight or a movie marathon, not the man I respect more than any fucking supernatural being who tries to-”

 

Dean can taste the tears on his lips, salty and warm, and their presence drowns out the words cusped in his mouth, floods away the train of thought.

 

“It just seems real fucking ironic,” he chokes out, “That actively trying to prevent you from being taken away is gonna be why you leave me in the end.”

 

“Dean,” Sam says timidly, like he’s afraid his brother might shatter.  “I never- I don’t _want_ to leave.”

 

But Sam’s two suitcases are sitting on his bed, nearly all of his possessions already packed away, and the one isn’t even halfway full. _Sam doesn’t settle, because Sam doesn’t stay._

“Then don’t,” Dean answers.  “Don’t leave.”

 

“That won’t solve anything.”

 

“Neither will leaving.”

 

Sam sinks down to sit on his mattress, places his thumb and forefinger at the corners of his eyes and drags them together until they meet below his nose, like he’s trying to coax words out of his head.

 

“I don’t- I don’t think I can, Dean.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because staying here, with you, like this- It’s breaking me. You have so many expectations of me, and I can’t possibly meet them all and-”

 

“Expectations? I don’t expect anything from-”

 

“No,” Sam cuts him off, raising a hand in a placating gesture.  “Let me finish. You raised me, Dean.  You think I don’t know that?”

 

“I think Dad would take offense-”

 

“I don’t give a fuck about Dad,” Sam spits. “And frankly, it pisses me off that you seem to think I should. He wasn’t there for me, and he certainly wasn’t there for you.  I know what kind of man he was, Dean. I know what he did to you.”

 

“When?”

 

“When what?” Sam replies. “When did I start figuring out that not all your bruises came from hunts?  High school. I tried to justify things for the longest time, but by the end of junior year, probably- It just became so clear, in hindsight. And I knew you were only- That you were trying to protect me.”

 

“And you left anyways?” 

 

“I had to get out, Dean,” Sam says quietly, looking down at his hands in his lap.  “I tried to rationalize it- I was the main reason for it, after all. Tried to tell myself that without me there, things might get better.  For all of us.”

 

“It didn’t,” Dean tells him.  “Get better, that is.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Sam’s voice is a whisper, barely reaching across the space from where he’s sitting to where Dean is leaning against the desk. Dean looks away from his brother, and folds his arms across his chest with a sigh.

 

“Let’s go back to yelling at each other now.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The silence stretches uncomfortably, and Dean really, really hopes that Sam will drop the topic because he would rather talk about pretty much anything else right now, so it’s a relief when Sam speaks again.

 

“You raised me, Dean.  You gave up everything for me. And nothing I could ever do- _nothing_ \- can repay that debt, or even express how much I owe you- For everything you’ve done for me.”

 

“So now you appreciate my sacrifices? What’s next,” he says, unable to keep the bitter edge out of his voice, “You gonna acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, I’ve gotten hurt sometimes, too? Or do you still want to tell me that I don’t have to deal with the consequences of every damn thing I’ve ever done?”

 

“That was- It was wrong of me,” Sam replies through closed eyes.  “To say- To say what I said. I know it isn’t true. I shouldn’t have said that.”

 

“No, Sammy,” Dean answers.  “You shouldn’t have.”

 

Sam runs a hand through his hair with a groan. “And I’m sorry, okay? But it’d take a damn week and then some to go through every unjustified thing we’ve ever said to each other in anger. And frankly, I think- Well. It’s not worth it, Dean. Not to me.”

 

Dean realizes what Sam means, and he feels his heart sink.  He’s said a lot of shit to Sam over the years- Shit he can’t take back, not anymore. And Sam is willing to forgive him for it.  _Only because he believes you_ , his guilt tells him. _Because he knows the things you told him were unjustified and wrong, but he doesn’t think they are worth arguing about. Because you’ve made him believe that they’re true._

“Look,” Sam interrupts Dean’s thoughts. “Can I just finish telling you why I don’t think I can stay?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean mumbles, because he doesn’t really want to hear why Sam thinks they shouldn’t be brothers anymore.

 

“I owe you everything,” he repeats. “Everything I’ve ever had, who I am now, who I can be in the future- It’s all because of you. And I want to live up to that.”

 

“I want to be- I need to be the best man I can be, Dean. Because I owe you that. But when I’m with you- I don’t know who that man should be.  I don’t know who you think that man should be.”

 

Sam gains confidence as he speaks, looking up to meet his brother’s eyes.  Dean looks away, down to his shoes.

 

“Because you tell me that you want me to get out, have a picket fence and a wife and kids. But then you tell me that I can’t turn away from hunting. You want me to be you, sometimes.  But you get upset with me, if I’m not being my own person. And I know you don’t mean to, but I feel like you place all these expectations on me, and I can’t possibly meet them all-”

 

“I never meant to-”

 

“Dean, it’s your not fault. It’s just- It’s just the way it is. At least, that’s how I feel that is. And when we’re together- I feel like I’m being pulled in so many directions that I’m bound to tear eventually. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be, when I’m with you.”

 

“Yeah, well, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be _without_ you.”

 

Dean wishes he hadn’t said it, that he could take back the words and seal them back inside his throat, choke on them rather than let them surface.  Because the look Sam gives him- a mix of compassion, confusion and regret- breaks something in Dean.

 

“I don’t,” Sam starts. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to reply to that. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 

“I don’t know, either.”

 

After a long pause, Dean speaks again.

 

“I want you to say you understand. Because I’m sorry, Sammy, that you think you’ve lost yourself.  But if I fail you- If you leave or die, if I lose you- Then I’m gonna lose us both. And I don’t think I can survive that.”

 

“I do understand,” Sam replies quietly. “But it doesn’t change the way I feel.”

 

Dean grimaces. It was about what he expected to hear, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

 

“You don’t really think we’re that broken, do you? That we’re beyond fixing?”

 

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam admits. “But we sure as fuck aren’t healthy anymore. If we ever were. Thousands of years in Hell, just to save your brother? We crossed a line somewhere, maybe there, maybe before, maybe after- But if we can fix this, I sure don’t have any ideas as to how.”

 

Tears are gathering in Sam’s eyes again, threatening to spill across his face.  Dean forces a weak smile.

 

“Hey now,” he attempts to joke, “It was like, forty years, tops.”

 

The sound Sam makes is a laugh, but it is wet and choked and comes across as a sob.

 

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

 

_Oh._

“Shit, Sam,” Dean stammers.  “I wasn’t thinking- I just- Shit. Sorry.”

 

Sam has tucked his head against his shoulder, turning away from his brother to hide his tears. Dean crosses the small space and sits next to him, hesitant about whether he’s allowed to hug his little brother anymore. After a minute, he knocks his shoulder against Sam’s softly and says, “You saved the world, Sam.”

 

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m a monster.”

 

“You’re not a mons-”

 

“But I am, Dean. Heaven and Hell and everything and everyone between made sure of it.  I was brought into this world to be the second coming of the Devil. Literally. Everything I’m supposed to be is- Evil. The thing even hunters would have nightmares about.”

 

“But you chose differently.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam tells him.  “I _chose_. Because I can’t change who- what- I am, Dean.  I’ve learned to be okay with being a monster, because you taught me that I don’t have to act like one. That I can be in control of the things I do. That I can- That I can chose. Not to hurt people. Not to watch their lives drain away beneath my fingers. I’ve learned to accept the things I’ve done, the mistakes I’ve made. It’s the stuff I didn’t get to chose- That’s what keeps me up at night.”

 

Sam’s face is streaked with rivers now, but his voice is steady. It trembles, but does not break.

 

“Fuck,” Dean replies, running a hand through his own short hair as he grimaces.  “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

 

“You couldn’t have known,” Sam says, and it kills Dean, that Sam is trying to make him feel better about this. “I didn’t tell you.”

 

“But still, I should have- Shit, I should have-”

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

And that’s the truth of it, right there.

 

“Everytime we fight,” Sam continues, “You promise me it will get better. That next time- That the next time will be different. And it never is. And I just- I just can’t do it anymore, Dean.”

 

Dean suspects what Sam is about to say next, and he bites his lip, because he thinks maybe it might stop the dampness collecting in the hollows of his cheeks.

 

“I don’t… Dean, I don’t trust you anymore. I don't _want_ to trust you.”

 

Dean winces, because it might as well be a physical blow.  Sam waits for him to respond, tentative and a little afraid.

 

“C’mon then,” Dean finally says, more gruffly than he intended, once the silence becomes stifling.  “Let’s finish getting your stuff packed.”

 

“Dean…”

 

“Sam. There isn’t anything left to say, okay? Not right now.”

 

“You’re still my brother. You’re still family.”

 

Dean could laugh, because that's supposed to be his line. _But family isn’t blood,_ Dean knows. _Family is trust_. And without that, he can’t understand why Sam would want to stick around.

 

“I could still come and visit. Help with research. Go through the archives.”

 

“That’d be… That’d be nice.”

 

They lapse into silence, Sam still sitting on the bed as Dean sifts through his suitcases.

 

“You’ve got shit for socks,” Dean comments distractedly.  “You always wear through the heels.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam replies. “I just threw a bunch out.”

 

“I’ll go grab you some of mine, okay?”

 

He doesn’t give Sam a chance to answer, and ducks into the hallway as quickly as he can. He rubs the heel of his hand against his face, wipes away the flood from his cheeks. _Get it together_ , he tells himself. 

 

He stands at his dresser for a long time. Much longer than is really necessary, even if he tells himself that he has to be sure to choose the warmest pairs of socks because Sam has shitty circulation in his feet. He eventually grabs several bundles, but he knows he’s waited too long. _Or just long enough_ , he thinks. _Coward._

When he returns to Sam’s room, his brother is gone. So are the suitcases.

 

He sinks onto the bed, picking up the half sheet of paper left behind.

 

_Dean-_

_I’m guessing you don’t really want to do the whole ‘goodbye’ shtick.  I don’t blame you. I’m really sorry. But thanks for understanding. Or trying to. I know this isn’t easy for you. But it means a lot to me. That you are willing to try things my way.  Thanks again._

Sam’s name is scrawled beneath, and the corner of Dean’s mouth twitches slightly.  The kid left a fucking note.  And signed it, too. As if Dean wouldn’t know who it was from.  

And beneath the signature-

 

_I’ll call you tomorrow night._

 

It should make Dean feel better. But instead, he gives in.  He shudders with the force of his sobbing, struggling to draw air into his lungs.  He wonders idly, as he slips down to rest on the floor, his head between his knees, if there’s any use in praying.


End file.
